Scatterheart

by Lili Wilkinson

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Hannah.

  Thomas shifted slightly. ‘What for?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘Everything. Being horrible to you. Being me.’

  There was that shadow-smile again, this time with a flicker of life in his eyes. ‘Don’t be sorry for being you,’ he said. ‘You’re strong.’

  ‘Stubborn.’

  ‘Same thing.’

  He took her hand. It wasn’t the same hand as she had held on his first day as her tutor. This hand was calloused and hard. But it still covered her hand completely, swallowing it up out of sight.

  ‘I’m sorry too,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have given up on you.’

  ‘You had every reason too.’

  ‘I still shouldn’t have given up, though.’

  She squeezed his hand.

  ‘I just never imagined it would be like this,’ he said. ‘I always thought I could protect you, but…’

  ‘You can,’ said Hannah. ‘You did. We can protect each other.’

  He nodded. She reached up a hand and gently touched the side of his face. It was rough and prickly with stubble. He closed his eyes and smiled gently.

  Hannah leaned against him. He felt warm and solid. Safe.

  Thomas opened his eyes. ‘Do you want to go back to London?’

  Hannah looked out at the mountains spreading before her, majestic and overwhelming. An enormous brown and golden bird wheeled into view, soaring up into the achingly blue sky. She shook her head.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good,’ said Thomas. ‘I’m sure there are plenty of opportunities for an escaped convict and a fugitive murderer in a place like this.’

  His eyes twinkled, and Hannah finally relaxed. He was right. This was the land where nothing was as it seemed. There would be a place for them somewhere.

  ‘So,’ said Thomas after a pause. ‘You married that man.’

  ‘I thought you were dead,’ said Hannah. ‘I thought that I’d lost you. So I picked up his handkerchief. I didn’t realise it meant we were married.’

  Thomas looked away and swallowed.

  ‘Are you jealous?’ she said.

  Thomas shrugged. ‘You picked up his handkerchief,’ he said. ‘You chose him.’

  Hannah put her hand up against his cheek and pulled him round, forcing him to look at her.

  ‘I chose you first,’ she said.

  She dug in the folds of her dress and pulled out the brown scrap of fabric.

  ‘I picked up your handkerchief first,’ she said, pressing it into his hand.

  He looked down at it, then smiled at her.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said.

  ‘In London,’ she said, remembering him standing before her fireplace, eyes shining. ‘In London you said we could have an adventure.’

  Thomas raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t think adventures were appropriate for young ladies of Quality.’

  Hannah grinned. ‘But I’m not a lady of Quality,’ she said. ‘I’m a doxy convict slattern, didn’t you hear?’

  He laughed and put an arm around her waist. ‘Lucky for us,’ he said.

  ‘So where do we start?’ Hannah asked.

  ‘Well,’ said Thomas, still smiling, ‘how about a story?’

  ***

  Scatterheart and the white bear looked up at the great tree, and saw that it had grown leaves of silver, and acorns made of brightly-coloured jewels. And Scatterheart and her white bear (and the little wax-child) picked these treasures, and lived happily ever after.

  ***

  Acknowledgments

  It takes more than one person to write a book, and although it’s my name on the cover, this book wouldn’t exist without the support of the following people.

  Sarah Dollard for her storylining genius – every writer should have a professional storyliner they can call up when plotting a novel, and again when the first draft is ready to be torn to pieces.

  Justine Larbalestier and Scott Westerfeld, for excellent accommodation, wine and conversation, and for helping me figure out what the field of spikes was. Special thanks to Justine for her first-reader patience and refreshing lack of tact.

  Sean Elliot, for fantastically nerdy astronomical knowledge.

  Everyone on the aus-convicts mailing list for answering my questions.

  Kate Rose for checking that I hadn’t confused my masthead with my mizzen.

  The staff in Manuscripts, at the State Library of Victoria.

  My mother for being both a good reader and a good listener. Also to mum and dad in general for letting me live under their roof while I wrote the first draft.

  Thanks also to my colleagues at the Centre for Youth Literature (Mike, Paula and Elizabeth) for their flexibility and understanding, and to my amazing friends for letting me rabbit on endlessly about convicts and pretending they weren’t bored.

  And abundant, effusive thanks to everyone at black dog books, in particular Alison Arnold and Andrew Kelly, for their endless support, patience and enthusiasm.

  One of the best things about writing historical fiction is that you get to do research and find out lots and lots of amazing and interesting things and then steal them for your book. You also get to make stuff up.

  Scatterheart is a work of fiction. There was a convict called Hannah Cheshire (she was my great great great great great grandmother), but she sailed in the Second Fleet, in 1790, and apart from her name, had nothing in common with the Hannah in this book.

  There was no ship called the Derby Ram. It’s made up of bits and pieces of other ships, and I apologise if any ship-knowledgey-people read it: I am an absolute novice when it comes to matters nautical. I tried.

  Nearly all of the characters are fictional, although many of them were inspired by real people. The only ‘real’ character in the novel is Dr William Redfern, who was the Assistant Surgeon to the colony, and is the man after who the suburb of Sydney is named.

  In case anyone is wondering, the gruesome, violent, cruel things that happen to people in this book (the Black Pit, the man with no skin, the Mermaid Dance) are unfortunately not from my imagination. They all happened, right here in Australia.

  I’d like to thank the authors and publishers of the following books, which were not only fabulous resources, but also fired up my newfound passion for Australian history.

  The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes

  John Nicol, Mariner, Life and Adventures by John Nicol

  The Convict Ships by Charles Bateson

  The Floating Brothel by Sian Rees

  Orphans of History by Robert Holden

  Dancing with Strangers by Inga Clendinnen

  Dr Johnson’s London by Lisa Picard

  The 50-gun Ship by Rif Winfield and John McKay

  1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue by Captain Grose et al.

  And the works of Georgette Heyer and Leon Garfield, and the Hornblower mini-series, for getting me in the mood. I used to think Australian history was boring. I’ve changed my mind.